Krungus paced in furious circles, his hands twitching with the urge to cast something, anything, that could convey the sheer injustice of it all.

  "This is an attack! A coordinated attack! You think this was an accident? Some tragic, unforeseen circumstance? NO! It was sabotage!" He jabbed a finger into the air, as if physically pointing out the conspiracy that no one else could see. "And yet, who gets blamed? Who gets their name dragged through the mud? Me! Do you know how much magic it would take to make a bridge collapse at just the right moment? Who has that kind of precision? I DO! Which means someone is trying to frame me!"

  The Number was, at this point, only half-listening.

  Brenna, arms crossed, cleared her throat. "Krungus, you just built that bridge. If it collapsed, maybe you should be asking yourself some questions."

  "A likely story! And who benefits?" He spun on his heel, pointing wildly at each of them in turn. "Not me! I don’t even like that bridge! I don’t use bridges! I teleport! This is political! A smear campaign!"

  Bahumbus, resting his head against his hand, sighed. "Do you even read the papers, Krungus? The article just says people think you did it. Not that you actually did."

  Krungus scoffed, grabbing a crumpled newspaper off the nearest table and shaking it in front of them. "Oh, well, if they only think I did it, that makes it fine? Read the headline! 'Archwizard Suspect in Bridge Collapse!' That’s not a neutral take! That’s vilification! That’s libel! That’s—"

  "A very predictable reaction, considering your history of... let’s call them 'unorthodox magical events,'" Utopianna mused, though she didn’t look up from her cup of tea.

  Krungus opened his mouth, paused, then scowled. "I will not stand for this. If you all won’t act, then I will! I’m going to shut down these vile rags myself!"

  Without waiting for a response, he whirled and stormed out, robe billowing behind him.

  Rent and Griddle exchanged glances.

  "Should we stop him?" Rent asked.

  Brenna groaned, rubbing her temples. Rent and Griddle both turned to look at Utopianna, as if this was her problem to solve. She sighed, setting her cup down with deliberate patience. "I suppose I should go after him, then."

  Eugene had asked Krungus earlier that day if he had any scrolls that would keep him safe while he practiced flying on his broom. Krungus had grumbled about "incompetent apprentices," rifled through a pile of disorganized scrolls, and eventually tossed a couple of Feather Fall scrolls at Eugene.

  "Here. Try not to splatter," Krungus muttered before waving him away.

  Sitting on the rooftop now, Eugene unrolled one of the scrolls just to double-check it. Yep. Feather Fall. Exactly what he needed—just in case he lost control midair.

  He stuffed them into his bag and focused on the task at hand—finally testing out his broom.

  He picked a relatively open spot, where he wouldn't immediately crash into anything important.

  As he kicked off the ground, he immediately noticed something odd. People were staring.

  A group of street kids pointed.

  An older man scowled.

  Someone muttered, "What the hell?"

  Eugene hesitated mid-air. Do witches not ride brooms here? Or is it just weird for a guy to do it? He made a mental note to ask later.

  That thought vanished the moment he really felt the broom.

  It was perfect.

  Silent. No rush of wind, no magical hum—just smooth, effortless movement.

  Sustainable. Unlike griffons or magic spells, it wasn’t draining anything. It just worked.

  Precise. He adjusted his footing and found he could hover, pivot, glide. After some practice, he learned to lift off gently, his feet barely brushing the ground before he glided straight into the air.

  It was... easy.

  And, for once, something in this world just felt right.

  As he silently glided above the rooftops, the vast sprawl of the city unfolded beneath him in a way he had never seen before. The winding streets, the market squares, the towering spires—it all stretched out like an impossibly intricate maze. He felt a twinge of unease at the sheer height, a deep, instinctual wariness of how small everything looked from up here.

  For a moment, he thought of that scene in Aladdin—the one where they sang A Whole New World while soaring over an impossibly perfect cityscape. This wasn’t quite that. There was no princess, no romantic glow of lanterns. Just the wind against his face, the weightless ease of the broom beneath him, and the raw, undeniable vastness of the world below.

  It was breathtaking. And terrifying. And, yeah—kind of magical.

  After a few minutes, he decided it was time to test the scrolls. He took the Feather Fall one, muttered the activation phrase, and jumped off the broom midair, the broom itself falling to the ground twenty feet below.

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  He didn’t plummet. Instead, he floated gently down, landing as if gravity had simply decided to take the afternoon off.

  Nice.

  Now feeling a little more confident, he considered what else he could do to improve his broom. Could Bahumbus upgrade it? Make it faster? More maneuverable? Maybe even add some emergency landing feature?

  He made a mental note to ask Bahumbus for broom enhancements.

  If this broom was going to be his, he might as well make it better.

  Eugene had agreed to meet Bahumbus at his workshop, deciding to put his new broom to proper use. The flight over had been smooth, and despite its simplicity, the broom felt good in the air. He couldn't shake the feeling, though, that Bahumbus was only this nice to him because Krungus had accidentally yanked him out of his own world. It wasn’t resentment, exactly—just a nagging awareness that their dynamic might be different if circumstances had been more intentional.

  Bahumbus nearly fell over laughing when Eugene told him how much he’d spent on it.

  "You—ha!—you spent a knuckle-sized diamond on that? That weak, basic, barely-above-a-broomstick thing?" He clutched his stomach, gasping between bursts of laughter. "By the stars, Eugene, I could’ve built you one for half a pebble and some goodwill!"

  Eugene crossed his arms, not bothering to argue. "I know I overpaid. But in my defense, a magic broom that worked on Earth would’ve been worth more than a giant diamond. And Krungus just made a small pile of them like it was nothing, so it’s not like he’s hurting for diamonds."

  Bahumbus wiped a tear from his eye. "Yeah, well, even so, you’re not on Earth, are you? You’re here, where you got fleeced worse than a sheep in a textile mill."

  Eugene rolled his eyes. "So, can you upgrade it or not?"

  Bahumbus grinned, cracking his knuckles. "Oh, I can upgrade it. But first, let’s see what we’re working with."

  He pulled out a strange, rune-inscribed device and waved it over the broom. A few sigils flickered, then sputtered out weakly. Bahumbus frowned. "Yep. Just as I thought. This thing can’t hold much of an enchantment. You’re lucky it flies at all."

  Eugene sighed. "Yeah, yeah. Can you still do something with it?"

  "Oh, sure. First things first—let’s toughen it up." Bahumbus retrieved a small jar of the same stain he’d used on Eugene’s staff. He popped the lid and dipped a brush into the thick, shimmering liquid. "This won’t make it indestructible, but close. At the very least, it won’t snap in half the first time you hit a tree."

  Eugene watched as Bahumbus carefully applied the stain along the length of the broomstick. It soaked in immediately, leaving behind a faint, dark sheen. "That should do it. Now, let’s fix this cheap binding."

  Bahumbus yanked off the mess of string near the bristles. "You know what this is called?"

  Eugene blinked. "Uh. The...string?"

  Bahumbus smirked. "It’s a ferrule. And this one’s garbage." He replaced it with a sturdy metal clasp, securing it with a few quick adjustments. "This’ll give you better responsiveness. Less lag when you change directions."

  Eugene tested the broom in his hands. It already felt...tighter, more solid. "Huh. That actually makes a difference."

  Bahumbus grinned. "Of course it does. Now, let’s talk real upgrades."

  He leaned back, rubbing his chin. "Honestly, I could replace this whole thing with something better. Something sleeker, more aerodynamic. Maybe a collapsible frame, or even one that hovers in place when you step off—no more dropping it in the mud like a chump. I could even rig up some thrusters, let you push past normal flying speeds."

  Eugene smirked. "Tempting, but I think I’ll stick with this one."

  Bahumbus raised an eyebrow. "You sure? You could have something way better than this overpriced twig."

  Eugene patted the broom. "I know it’s not fancy, but it works. Plus, let’s be real—I already sunk a fortune into it. I might as well get my money’s worth."

  Bahumbus chuckled. "Fair point. But don’t come crying to me when you realize you’re flying around on a pile of kindling."

  Eugene shrugged. "Hey, that’s another thing I like about it. It doesn’t look valuable. No one’s gonna try and steal this thing."

  Bahumbus smirked, shaking his head. "Fine, fine. Keep your sentimental hunk of wood. But if you ever want an actual upgrade, you know where to find me."

  Later that day, while flying back across the city, Eugene decided to make a pit stop. He’d heard B’doom mention something odd about a place called the Shroom Zoo, and curiosity got the better of him.

  He dipped his broom lower, gliding between towers and old stone arches until he spotted the overgrown dome tucked behind a cluster of tenements. It was half-collapsed, covered in vines and faded signage. Fungal growths spilled out through cracked glass and rusted gates. The painted letters above the entrance read: The Shroom Zoo – A Living Fungal Experience, though the word "Living" had mostly peeled away.

  He touched down just outside the entrance, feet crunching on a carpet of moss. There was something surreal about the place—like time had paused and left it to rot in silence. Eugene stepped forward, brushing aside a curtain of hanging lichen, and made his way inside.

  If nothing else, it was a break from flying. And maybe, if he was lucky, he’d spot whatever it was B’doom seemed so oddly nostalgic about.

  He passed through the gates cautiously, broom tucked under one arm, boots pressing softly into the moss that blanketed the old stone. The smell hit him first—a mix of wet earth, decay, and something older. He took a few steps deeper into the garden-turned-zoo, immediately struck by the strange balance of ruin and growth. The place was alive again, in its own fungal way.

  Clusters of mushrooms pulsed with soft light under glass domes patched with moss. Spores drifted through the air in lazy spirals, catching the light like dust in a sunbeam. The exhibits were still mostly collapsed, but some now showed clear signs of recent care. Bright stalks twisted out of cracked soil, and mycelium webbing stitched paths back together. Eugene wandered slowly, soaking it in.

  He found a weathered placard half-buried in moss: The Rainbow Puff Grove. The lettering had been carefully dusted off, and fresh puffballs had been planted nearby—still small, but promising.

  Eugene smiled to himself. "Well I’ll be damned, B’doom. You actually fixed it."

  He spotted a squat figure tending to a patch of mushrooms near a broken dome—Spib, no doubt. But Eugene didn’t call out. He didn’t want to interrupt. He just walked the paths, broom under arm, marveling at how something so forgotten could come back from the brink.

  Eugene was about to turn and head out when he realized Spib wasn't just muttering to the plants, he was chanting something.

  At first, he thought Spib was just talking to himself again. But then the cadence caught his attention—repeating, precise. The same line over and over, like a mantra: "Spores to soil, fruit to bloom... spores to soil, fruit to bloom..."

  He turned slowly. Spib was still hunched over the soil, but his movements were jerky now, unnatural. Mycelium tendrils, thin and white as spider silk, protruded from his eyes. They appeared to be searching for something as they wiggled.

  Eugene’s stomach turned.

  Spib rose, but not as himself. His limbs moved like a puppet's, strings pulled by something deeper underground. The chant continued from his slack jaw: "Spores to soil, fruit to bloom... spores to soil, fruit to bloom..."

  Then, without warning, Spib’s body convulsed. Mycelium tendrils burst outward from his limbs and spine as his form collapsed into a pile of fungal mass. A bloom of spores exploded from the center in a sudden puff of white-gray dust, swirling with thin tendrils that curled in the air like questing vines.

  Eugene’s heart nearly stopped.

  He bolted, broom under his arm, lungs burning as he sprinted out of the zoo. He didn’t know where B’doom was—but he had to find him. Fast.